The Guessing Game

By

Mykola Dementiuk

 

 

It had been three weeks since he had last guessed correctly, but since she had only allowed him one guess a night and there was a limited number of colors he could guess at, the odds of hitting it correctly sooner or later should have been in his favor; but they weren’t, and once again he had guessed wrong.

“Blue!” he stammered, thinking they had to be blue; it was time for blue anyway. Yesterday was white, the day before red, before that black, and it was pink four days ago…yes, today it would be blue! It had to be blue – besides, there was only one blue pair left in her dresser drawer, only white and red and black and pink ones in the laundry hamper, and since she only had two pairs of blue ones to begin with, they had to be blue!

“Blue!” he said, and no matter how logical and calculating his reasoning, still none to sure of himself. Because all the deductions, all the snooping through drawers, through laundry baskets, had led him to wrong conclusions before; he had counted, tabulated, sorted (and sniffed, clean ones and soiled) every pair in the house – there must have been over two dozen – and still for three weeks he couldn’t come up with any pattern she followed to put on which pair with which outfit. Didn’t a black dress with black hose and black shoes presuppose a black pair of panties? No, she’d wear green ones! Wouldn’t white tennis shorts on a Sunday afternoon blend in perfectly with white panties underneath? Of course not, stupid! A shimmer of tiny red, circling, outlining, dipping into her highlighted attention-focused ass was the preferred style. So how could he ever guess what color she’d be wearing, or the logic behind it?

“Blue!” he gushed again, and winced. The look of disap-pointment was evident in her eyes, her mouth grimacing in disgust. He groaned, and felt his penis stiffen harder, more useless. But they had to be blue! They were blue this morning (he had peeked as she dressed) when she pulled on a pink skirt and went to work! But he knew they weren’t; who the hell knew what color they could be? How many times did a woman change her panties in a day? Five? Six?

What was a pair of panties anyway? A strip of colored cloth, two, three inches of elastic, stretchable material—you could squeeze one in your palm and clutch it all day, like a sacred talisman or holy amulet, a good luck charm, take it with you wherever you went, to business meetings, to restaurants, to 12-Step programs, and who would be the wiser? They were practically invisible; he had never checked her purse, but he was certain if he had he’d find a few pairs in there too, in between the makeup jars, the lipstick tubes, the eyebrow pencils, the bulging wallets and checkbooks, the tokens, the brushes, the sales coupons, the tampons, the other panties…

Hell, the things were so tiny they could be shed and replaced in an instant! How convenient! Take them off on a hot summer day: just step into a hallway, lower the damp sticky pair, powder the ass and cunt, and step into a nice cool fresh pair of dry ones…

That’s what the fucking panties in the streets were all about: everywhere you looked panties were lying on the sidewalk, in the gutters, on top of garbage cans, draped over fences, stuck on poles, everywhere you turned some cunning bitch unobtrusively tossing something invisible over her shoulder. Goddammit!! Hot sweaty cunts changing their wardrobes in the middle of the day in the middle of the street in the middle of the whole fucking city!

Of course they weren’t blue! Who could possibly know how many colors they had already been that day? The fucking things changed by themselves every fucking minute of every fucking day! Like magic! Nothing up the sleeve? Nothing around the cunt either!

She sighed, looked at him sadly, and shifted her weight on the sofa. He scowled and clutched his crotch. It had come to this: his failure at guessing correctly at least gave him the consolation of peeking under her skirt to verify his wrong assumption, the frustrating consolation of gaping up her long nyloned legs, of eyeing the glimmer of unattainable moist flesh, of staring in disbelief at whatever-colored panties clasped the bloated bulb of her un-possessable cunt…

It was always the same scenario: she sat cross-legged on the couch, he knelt before her, guessed at a color, watched her uncross her legs, peered up her skirt, and spasmed in his pants; even if he guessed correctly and been rewarded with his first fucking in weeks, he knew he couldn’t have gotten it up a second time. The anticipation, the fear, the anxiety probably brought on the force of his ejaculation as quickly and rapidly as did any abstinence or sexual stimulus under a female skirt. For three weeks he had creamed his failure at guessing correctly in his pants, and he was ready for another failed creaming right now.

She uncrossed her legs, the rustling whoosh of brushing nylons tearing at his soul and groin, and slightly pulled up a corner of her skirt, raising one leg up on the couch.

He gaped at her bare crotch.

“You fucking bitch!” he screamed. “You lying fucking whore!”

She smirked, and shrugged.

“It was almost a hundred degrees today,” she said.

“You bitch!” he cursed, and stared at her bare pantyless cunt. (When did she shave that? But then, when had he last seen it?)

“It was hot,” she shrugged, and smirked again.

He leaped off the floor.

“That’s not fair!” he screamed. “You cheated!”

This was certainly outside of the ground rules of their guessing game. This was cheating; he knew, and so did she. They agreed there’d be no trickery of any kind—no arguing or bickering over color-shades or tints: blue would always be blue, not seaside marine; red was red, and not majestic scarlet; purple would be purple, and not evening magenta; pink pink, and not pussy blush, or whatever the cunt-clothes-catalogs she got in the mail called it. And if she wore tiger-stripes or colored spots of polka dots, any color on the panty he guessed at was valid to take in the entire panty and he won. And got laid. But pantyless? And hairless crotch? This was outside the rules. This was cheating. And it wasn’t fair!

“You cheater!” he cursed, and leaped at her. “I’ll give you panty pussy, you cunt, you whore!”

She giggled as he unzipped his pants and was in between her legs, fast; she didn’t even resist, and wanted him, pulling him in her. It had been three weeks for her too! And he was in, and out, and in, and out, back, and forth, back, and forth, in, and out, her ankles on his shoulders, her ass at his balls, his cursing mouth (Bitch! Whore! Pussy! Cheater!) spitting at her, grunting, yelping, teeth and lips (Oh God! Yes! Fuck me! Oh! Cock!). She screamed, he yelped, they came, and he collapsed atop her heaving chest, her legs falling down his arms but circling around his ass and waist and holding him in…

They gasped into each other’s ear; they kissed.

Maybe the guessing game had gone on too long. He gently stroked a breast; the cup under the blouse seemed stiff. Was it new? Blue? He leered. Since the blouse was red, her fashion logic probably called for green. He asked. She smirked.

“Guess,” she teased.

He guessed; she frowned.

“Guess again…”